Red
by raileht
Summary: Kurt thinks about Diane.


**Red  
**by raile

**Summary: **A man thinks.  
**Disclaimer: **the ones you don't know are mine, the ones you do aren't.  
**Rating: **T, to be safe  
_The very late birthday gift for marysunshine81._

**-o0o000o0o-**

_**Red**_

He feels her in the room but he is where he is supposed to be. He concentrates on straightening the collar of his crisp white shirt. It's starkly white just as it should be and he holds off complaining about the bowtie and tries to ignore the fact that it's slightly askew. She didn't want to be late, she had said and that made his waiting all the more fidget-inducing. It would have been nice if waiting for her allowed some touching but then again, he gets it. That would just make them later, for sure.

Not that it stops him from feeling the urge to sigh—the urge of which he pushes down but it is forgotten almost as quickly as he spies her in the corner of his eye.

She's standing in front of her vanity, dressed in a deep stunning kind of blue. He's a man and it's just a gown, but on her, draped and wrapped over her that way, molding around her body like a jealous lover—it is her grace that carries it into perfection. It's hard not to stare—but it's even harder to stay away. But he does. Because she asked. Because he needs to. Because he's right where he's supposed to be.

But it's absurd because for a moment, he is jealous of the piece of cosmetic gliding across her lips. She applies it with liberal ease, but with the sureness of a woman who knows exactly what she is doing. He's seen her do this before but somehow, that night, it was affecting him in ways that she wouldn't be entirely pleased with. Still, he's jealous of that lipstick. Absurd, but true.

He'd like nothing more to have that not be what's pressing against her lips.

It's a deep red, the kind of red she would most insistently call burgundy or something else. He doesn't care. He's the boy who grew up with eight colors in his box of crayons. And he may not know for sure, but he's sure a man invented crayons and back then, it had to have just been red, black, blue, yellow—and then some woman must've gotten her hands on them and suddenly, it's burgundy, eggplant, coal, lithium or whatever it is they have on those oversized boxes now.

Burgundy, crimson or red—it doesn't matter.

He just wants his lips on hers, tasting her and even that color—it would taste like the sharp flavor of love. Or maybe lust? A little of both—there is lust running through his veins but it doesn't mean he loves her any less. In fact, he's firm in thinking it means even more. He loves her as he wants her as he needs her.

And for tonight, it's all because of her lips.

She turns, capping the tube and placing it back on her vanity and he goes back to pretending to concentrate on his own preparations. His bow tie is still askew.

Her low laughter is warm like velvet and her touch even warmer as she places a hand on his shoulder and turns him away from the mirror. Words are not needed as she reaches up and undoes the tie. Her cluck is barely audible with disapproval most likely due to how he's mangled the piece of fabric but she says nothing in the end.

Deftly, her fingers move with agility, an amused curl of her lips drawing his attention there once more as she attends to him. Burgundy, crimson or red—he's drawn to her without any chance of breaking free.

Time is lost and quicker than a blink, she's done, running her hand over his shoulder, straightening the non-existent wrinkles in the fabric and removing what flecks that aren't there. She smiles at him, stunning and captivating all the same and she's every bit as alluring as the day they'd met.

She'd been wearing red then too.

All of it is done without effort, without thought and he knows it because he knows when she's trying to get to him. This is her being herself, natural but all the same still alluring and enticing and enchanting as when she's deliberately trying to capture him with her charm.

So it's no surprise when he's unable to help himself, reaching for her wrist when she attempts to move away.

It's amazing how easy it is for them to communicate without words, how easily they formed their bond that most people who have been together longer and have been through more than they have can't even come close to. He won't presume to know how it came to be, but he's glad either way.

His hands are warm too as he slips it around her waist, pulling her to him, gentle but firm. She doesn't question him and he's sure she didn't even consider resisting. He pulls her close and still, he cannot tear his eyes away from her lips.

Burgundy, crimson or red—he wants whatever it may be.

Any other night, she might have chastised him, but maybe she sees the intensity, how she's affected him in such a short time, how easily she's managed to enrapture him like no one else in the world ever could.

He is bewitched, but he isn't bothered. Bewildered, yes, and willingly so.

She's everything he wants.

And she is the only everything that will ever put him in such a pliant state.

Bewitched, truly, deeply, madly bewitched by her.

And it is only when her lips are pressed upon his when everything—_everything_—in the world is absolutely right.

Burgundy, crimson or red—he doesn't know what it is but he knows what it tastes like.

Her.

It tastes like her.

And it is nothing short of perfection.


End file.
